And The Violins Cried
by muertalas
Summary: L is fifteen, Near is four, and Mello is five. Geniuses. But even geniuses need bedtime stories. Cue L's mental breakdown and the children's innocent curiosity. Standalone.


**And The Violins Cried**

Church bells clanged loudly, chiming in the late hour of the night, their sound waves travelling through the air and ramming into his ears where they were warmly greeted. He hummed contently, hands jammed inside his baggy jean pockets. His tall, lanky form slouched as he stared out the window with bottomless ebony eyes, spikes of jet black hair falling in odd places around his face. Nibbling on his lip subconsciously, he continued to listen to the beautiful tolls of the inevitably enormous instruments.

"L," a weary, male voice called and he turned to gaze emotionlessly at the elderly man before him. A tailored suit, stark white hair, mustache and spectacles, as well as a tiny spark in his eye, or as he thoughtfully referred to the man: Watari. "M and N are going to sleep; do you still wish to tuck them in?"

The teenager nodded, trailing silently behind the slightly shorter gentleman out of the library that he had been standing in; thinking in; listening in. His bare feet padded noiselessly along the carpeted floors, the hallway almost fantastical, lined with door upon door and appearing to shrink into his frame with each step. A claustrophobic sensation overcame him, but he shook it off immediately.

Being weak was completely out of the question. If he was to be the greatest detective of the century; if he was to become the epitome of justice, then he would have to block out such humanity from himself. The two children; his favorite candidates to succeed him were his priorities at that given time, not the question of how sensible or in tune with his emotions he was.

M and N. L, M, N. Alphabet. _A, B, C, D, E, F, G…_

Shaking his head, L sucked on his bottom lip harshly, the chapped flesh nearly splitting as his teeth attacked it. He may have not been the sanest person, but the past successors – or rather, failures in becoming successors – were just that: the past. No need to sing out the alphabet within the confines of his mind and relive the horrible tragedies of each one's experiences at the orphanage.

"Here you are, L. Just in here." Watari had stopped walking and opened a stained cherry door, straight as a board as he awaited the detective's entrance into the room.

"Thank you, Watari," mumbled L, striding into the nearly pitch black bedroom. Various toys and candy bar wrappers were strewn across the mahogany floor, shadows being cast by miniature robots and the mounds of empty chocolate foils. The gray walls had been personalized with characterizations of comic book characters and depictions of famous Bible passages. Iron Man faced opposite of Jesus and Judas; quite an odd contrast though L was glad to see some differences between the two boys who sat upon their beds gazing up at him.

A child with shoulder-length, blonde hair munched on his candy without interest as he stared at the adolescent in front of him, eyes wide as dinner plates. His navy blue pajamas waved over his frail body, making him out to be skinnier and much more breakable than he really was. His toes wiggled in pent up excitement at the sight his swampy green orbs allowed him to view.

The other, smaller and adorned in a silver pair of pajamas, twirled a lock of oddly white hair, an emotionless expression set upon his visage. Two dark eyes gawked at the slender creature in subtle shock, as if they had never before captured such a remarkable and interesting work of art. The boy tightened his grip around the single leg that was pinned against his chest, as if he was attempting a half-assed try at disappearing from existence altogether, but it was obviously never going to work. The other leg lay comfortably spread upon his comforter.

"Mello," L nodded towards the blonde. "Near," he added, indicating the albino-looking child. Stepping closer to the center of the bedroom, he glanced sideways towards each of them in waiting for a response.

"You never t-tuck us in, L, why do it tonight?" The practically infantile voice erupted from Mello's throat, though quieter than he had imagined it would come out to be, and when the panda eyes of the detective were cast upon him, the lad shrank back into his pillows.

"I wished to understand the two of you better, and I thought that this would be a nice start," L placed a finger to his mouth and thought for a moment before adding, "Was that deduction wrong, Mello?"

Mello shook his head forcefully, mouth gaping and eyes wide in indignation.

"L?" The voice was tiny, almost inaudible, and when the detective turned to look at the source of the noise, he cocked an eyebrow quizzically. "Can you tell us a story before we go to sleep? Please?"

The teenager remained outwardly impassive, yet inside the depths of his brain laid a screaming prisoner, shocked and terrified of the prospect of having to come up with a tale to spew out as if it were verbal vomit, utterly losing all grasp at reality and diving head first into the shallow end of his mind's swimming pool. What the _hell_ would _he_ be capable of thinking up? They obviously didn't yearn for another stupid, highly cliché childhood story like Sleeping Beauty or Little Red Riding Hood.

"Are you sure you want me to do that?" L was cautious, and he dearly hoped that his nervousness did not show. "I'm not very good at telling stories."

"Please, L?" Mello joined in, childish voice cracking slightly.

"Mommy used to tell me a story every night…" A whisper; a mumble; a pleading for something that would get the poor infant through the hours of darkness, desperately and metaphorically clutching to the investigator's pant leg.

L's heart fractured at the pure, innocent hopelessness that Near emanated. Taking a couple of steps, he put one knee; two knees upon the bed and moved closer to the boy, taking him up in his arms and holding him close to his chest for a moment. The embrace was warm, overflowing with life that tiny Near gladly returned before he was put back down next to his idol; his hero; his father figure, who sat down next to him, legs pressed against his torso. Those black eyes stared across the room at Mello, who reeked with envy though he attempted not to show it.

"Mello, come over here." It was not an offer but an order from L.

The five-year-old rushed to the other side of the teen in a flash, leaning back on the gold tinted pillows and smiling toothily in triumph.

"If you really want, I can try to tell you a story," L mumbled and the children nodded in response to the statement. It was almost as if they were saying, _"Yes! We want a story!"_

Sighing, L placed his thumb to his mouth habitually, knocking the fingernail idly against his front teeth. Ideas raced through his mind at a race car pace, each one either too boring or too gruesome for small children to even try to comprehend. But the humming had yet to be annihilated from his head, and that brought about cellos and flutes and clarinets and snare drums. An orchestra flew through his brain and L lowered his thumb as his voice was found.

"This is a story about violins," he began, wrapping an arm around each boy and bringing them closer, much to their happiness. "When they are played, they weep, and yet we humans blindly think that it is beautiful and happy. Realistically, they – the instruments – are not. And one conductor of a magnificent orchestra was aware of this, and he decided to use it to his advantage."

Mello stifled a yawn and nuzzled his head inadvertently towards L's shoulder. The adolescent smiled softly, though it was barely visible, and continued.

"His name was Caleb, and from the moment he was born, he had adored music with all of his heart. Yet, his mind was never truly with it and it only ever spelled his doom. Every instrument he attempted, every note he scrawled, and every melody he sang or played was never flawless. It was never perfect. And so, he became a conductor of music already written. It was easy enough, he would think, for all he had to do was lead an orchestra and make _them_ perfect."

"But he never did, did he?" Near interrupted, lifting his curly-haired head off of L's chest to look sleepily at him.

"You are getting ahead of yourself, Near, but no, he didn't," replied L and he then went on. "Caleb trained his men and women quite hard, working them as though they were part of a boot camp instead of a world famous classical band. And because of that fact, Caleb was despised by his employees, yet they needed their competent pay to eat, so they stayed.

"But a plan was formed. Caleb had once boasted that he was able to hear the violins cry, and therefore thought of himself as 'special and godlike'. The violinists, however, were also able to hear it and shared their views and abilities with the others. And on a single, particular night, a horrible plot was born. Caleb would not only hear the violins sob, but he would pay for the hurt that he had caused."

"So Caleb is evil?" Mello mumbled, eyes closed and face still somewhat at attention.

"I suppose you can say that, yes," L nodded and leant into the comfort of the pillows before going on with his story. "On the evening of what was possibly the most important event of Caleb's career, the orchestra had decided to let the plan go into action. They looked to the violin players for guidance, but only received a nod of encouragement as an answer to any question. Their tools were polished and their expressions set as they walked onto the stage, lights brighter than any star and…" L ceased talking and glanced down at the pair warily, his mind but a blank as he tried to figure out what would happen next. Writer's block, that was what it was, and he was growing frightened of merely leaving his tale unfinished. For both Near and Mello, as well as the characters.

It was as if justice would not be withheld even for fictional creatures. L was supposed to be the epitome of righteousness, and if he let Caleb have his way, then what good would he be in the real world?

"Go on," Mello muttered, half asleep.

With a deep breath, L obeyed. "… and audience clapping with a rhythm fit for the drummers. Caleb stood before his stand, facing his band with a smirk on his lips. The conductor tapped his music stand and raised his baton and waited for his melodies to begin. The flutes started and the drums kept the beat; the clarinets sounded and the trumpets, saxophones, and trombones sang deeply. And the violins? They wept. The violins cried.

"The sound erupting from the violins was horrific, something that no one had ever heard beforehand. The onlookers screamed in pain and, covering their ears, ran out of the building. Caleb, though, stared in disbelief as his ears practically exploded in sheer agony. The hurt that the wooden instruments produced was ear-shatteringly gorgeous; otherworldly even. He couldn't move away, his mind was locked on to the target: the violins.

"Caleb _needed_ one. He _yearned_ for that perfection. And so, he rushed up to the violinists and grabbed at their tools, but it was in vain, for he could not play and he would never be able to."

L's eyes dropped down once more to look at the two children, fast asleep against him. Mello clung to the white quarter-sleeve shirt that L wore every day, the whites of his knuckles visible underneath his thin flesh. Near's mouth was open slightly, his hand close to it. Both of their heads rested on the teenager's torso, Near's next to his heart while Mello's lay somewhere by his lungs. The boys were curled up against L, comfortably keeping all three of them warm.

Sighing, he completed the story. "The tune of those violins never left Caleb's ears after that. They taunted him, drove him insane even. And even on his dying day, the last words he spoke were these:

"'I can still hear it. The violins… they're crying…'"

L yawned quietly as the last word flew off of his tongue and hung in the air for a moment before falling on his body, enchanting him into a deep sleep.


End file.
